


Delores: The Making of Malice

by RileyLillianPotter



Series: The Grimm Novellas [1]
Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Grimm Fairy Tales (Comics)
Genre: Abuse, Delores is legit insane, F/M, Miscarriage, Murder, Rape, Rape of a Minor, Underage Prostitution, abusive husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:18:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyLillianPotter/pseuds/RileyLillianPotter
Summary: Have you ever stopped to think why the Evil Stepmother is so evil? There has to be a reason. After all, there is always a making to someone's malice.





	1. Chapter 1

ONE

 

This story isn’t your stereotypical fairy tale. Where the plot always goes along like this: ‘Once upon a time, a beautiful princess sat on a pedestal while some desperate man tried to get laid.’ We have become accustomed to them. We live and breathe them. Crave them.  _ Demand _ them.

 

I believe we need a better sense of reality. Because truth be told, that basic plotline is incorrect. 

 

People forget that even though these stories are fiction, people still have to live with current issues. Current pain. Current insecurities. Like everyone else who must walk on this dreadful planet.

 

Someone who shows this perfectly is Delorés De Saint-Pierre. You may recognize her as the Evil Stepmother. 

 

Now, before you criticize her, I would like to input this piece of dialogue. She may be ‘evil’, insane even. But all that malice must stem off from somewhere. 

 

Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it. 

 

~~~

 

In Marseille, France, the streets were bustling with hundreds, likely thousands, of people. The local baker, François La Suer, waved gleefully to locals as the tailor, Barbara Verninac, swooned at his devilishly good looks. 

 

This town had a bright, happy face it showed people. Some may say it lowered them into a false sense of security.

 

Behind this mask, behind this imposter, lay what some might call “The Ghetto” of Marseille. Small, shabby houses that looked like they would fall over one single gust of wind. Rats, the size of small felines, roamed freely around the streets. Homeless citizens curled up in the alleys, impoverished and begging for any sort of relief. 

 

Among every inch of “The Ghetto of Mariselle,” among every sad building, sat a small and cramped house belonging to the family of Claude De Saint-Pierre.

 

His wife, Catherine, had gone shopping for groceries one winter evening and had never returned. So that left him with his only child, Delorés.

 

Delorés was a pretty little thing. Five feet four inches at the age of twelve, dark brown hair falling down her shoulders in waves. Her clothes screamed out destitution and her shoes had many holes inside them. Her dark blue eyes uncovered the obvious secret of her despair and discomfort.

 

The young girl stepped inside her sad excuse for a house, only to be greeted by her father and a strange man. She felt the corners of her mouth tilt downwards. “Father? What’s going on?”

 

Claude’s facial expression was the picture of disgust and iniquitous. “This, my dear is Mr. Néo Bouchard. He is going to help us.” 

 

For the first time since her mother went missing, a smile blossomed on Delorés’s face. “Really? How?”

 

Mr. Bouchard approached her slowly, a ghastly smile on his pale face. “Well, Mon Cheré,” The 45-year-old man purred with seduction, tilting her dainty head up. “You have to give yourself to me.”

 

Her eyes widened and she started to tremble out of fear. “W-What?”

 

Claude’s smirk grew as the older man took her to his daughter’s bedroom, only to violate the preteen. Screams of pain and terror echoed the cramped house.

 

“Help me, Father! Help me!”

 

The French man did nothing but gaze into his fire, listening with pleasure. This will make him wealthy. It would indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

 

Days...weeks...months... _ years.  _ Every second went on at an excruciatingly slow pace. The visually upsetting appearance of the impoverished part of Mariselle stayed the same. The people still blissfully ignorant about their horror-filled surroundings, and went about life as any normal person would. All people followed this except Delorés.

 

Her views became horrid and pessimistic, always expecting terrible things to happen. Who could blame her? Being forced to do indecent things every living second of the day affected her in ways you couldn’t begin to imagine.

 

At age fifteen, when her maturity was blossoming, it was an average day for Delorés. She walked home from school, quietly as she possibly could. Trying to not be noticed. The teen was terrified of everything in her life. She fully believed every little thing was out to do the exact actions her father’s  _ colleagues _ did to her.

 

Men...Women...Children...Pets...Trees...Anything. It was terrifying, painful, confusing. Every negative adjective you could use is what Delorés felt every second of her existence. 

 

Suddenly, the moments of her traveling thoughts stopped in front of a well-known lake in Mariselle. A young couple equipped with a small daughter who was giggling with gleeful innocence…

 

... It sickened her. Made an uncomfortable pit form in her stomach. In all of her morbidity, Delorés wanted to yell at them. For being perfect and polished. Even though that, just twelve years earlier, where her family stood.

 

Delorés walked away, tense as she neared to what she now affectionately named  _ The House of Hell.  _ To her utter “delight,” an older man stood outside the door. 

 

He looked to be about forty, possibly even older. He had dark red hair quickly fading into a dull gray. His eyes were a shade of brown dangerously leaned towards black, bleeding into his iris’. His facial features were ghastly, well accompanied with a crooked nose. He was no taller than five foot ten, though power still reeked inside his perplexing aura. 

 

“You must be Lady Delorés.” His silky, baritone voice sent chills down her spine. A smirk plastered onto his face, clearly noticing this.

The teen tilted up her head. “You must be another low life Father insists me bedding. Tell me, did you already pay him?” A dark chuckle from the man sent her into a deeper sense of unease. “So disrespectful...pity.” He roughly grasped her dainty chin with his thumb and forefinger, giving it a hard squeeze. “I can correct you though.”

 

Delorés laughed despite her fear. “You’re pathetic.” 

 

A well-hidden whimper caught in her throat as the man inspected the teen as if she were cattle. “You will be mine.” He growled. She did nothing but glare at him and wanted to stab his heart with a large knife, to see him writhe in pain as blood left his body. As he seized in front of her. As the life escaped from his eyes.

 

It was her fantasy.

 

Her ambition.

 

Her life set goal, she had now concluded.

 

“Claude creates beautiful children, I wonder if it carries on in the family’s bloodline.” The repulsive man’s voice soared through the unbearable air around them. Delorés scowled at him, waiting for the vermin to release her. The man, oblivious of her mental state, kept inspecting her.

 

“I might keep you, Dear Delorés.” He purred, an unattractive sound, in her ear. “I will pay the pretty penny to have such a fine specimen as yourself.” A callus grin plastered onto his face.

 

The fifteen-year-old swatted the hand away. “I’m not some sort of science experiment-” The client roughly gripped her chin, leaving vivid purple bruise marks on her skin. “You will submit to me, My Sweet.” HIs voice was cold...angry. But sickeningly proper.

 

Grudgingly deciding the fight wasn’t worth it, the teenager stopped. A vampiric grin expanded across his face and one simple word left the man’s mouth.

 

“Fantastic.”


	3. Chapter 3

THREE   
  


Ah, weddings. Most of the time, they’re joyous occasions. Where laughter, cheerfulness, excitement, and euphoria intermingle…

 

...well I did say most of the time.

 

In a small church, the most Monsieur De Saint-Pierre was willing to spend, there were two rooms on opposite sides of the building. One of them had a large powder room meant for trying on and/or putting on dresses for the ceremony. There was some sort of desk stocked with beauty products, including brushes and combs. Finally, a mannequin stood beside the desk, meant for holding the corset that would be of use.

 

In the other room on the far side of the church, there was a smoking room for the gentlemen of the establishment. It was used for the groom and his groomsmen to prepare themselves for their special day. A larger than life bar stood in the corner, filled with many delights you could choose from. A case just for cigarettes and cigars were smartly placed by two marble ashtrays. A fireplace gave the room a warm tone, as well as a warm temperature. 

 

If you haven’t already guessed, these were the rooms for the bride and groom. Where they would prepare themselves for what seemed the biggest day of their life. This is where Delorés was on a chilly October morning, dreading her future to come.

 

An elderly woman, looking to be the ripe age of seventy, roughly helped do up her corset and dress, putting her hair in an elegant do with the traditional veil. She inhaled a deep breath and shakily let it out, turning on her heel and walking down to the doors. 

 

The door opened and she walked down the aisle, noticing nobody seated to watch the ceremony. Nobody. It was just a narrow path down towards the cocky face of her betrothed and the minister himself. 

 

No one was there.

 

No one loved her.

 

Nobody cared.

 

She was alone...isolated...betrayed.

 

It hurt so much, tears of pain welled up in her eyes without realizing it. And, to her utmost annoyance, a pleased look enraptured the face of her 41-year-old fiance. “It is a joyous occasion, is it not?” His voice dripped with greed and arrogance, a dreadful combination of traits. Correction: A  _ disgusting _ combination of traits.

 

When the minister started to talk, her senses became fogged up. It sounded like when you have too much water in your ears, and the mixture of vowels and consonants mixing. 

 

Her fearful gaze still landed on her betrothed, a look coming from him that promised nothing but terrible, awful things. She silently gulped, shaking ever so slightly. 

 

“Omer Flessis, do you take Delorés De Saint-Pierre to be your lawfully wedded wife?” An arrogant smile disgraced his already hideous mannerisms. “I do.”

“And Delorés De Saint Pierre, do you take Omer Flessis to be your lawful wedded husband?” She froze, almost shattering under the threatening gaze of Omer. “I do.”

 

The priest nodded grimly. “You may now kiss the bride, Mr. Flessis.” The older man didn’t hesitate to roughly grab her chin, pulling her face close to his with a jolt. Omer roughly bit at her lips.

 

... Now, this action itself spoke many things:

 

Dominance.

 

Greed.

  
Malice.

 

_ Power. _

 

A terrified whimper escaped from the back of her throat. This wasn’t good...no this wasn’t good at all. 

 

A pessimistic thought rang through her head.  _ But when is it? _


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

 

Every inch of Delorés awoke, the feeling of absolute agony. Cuts, bruises, scratches, handprints...they were everywhere. A note from her new husband said he would be back late and expected dinner upon his arrival

 

The teen set the note down at an agonizingly slow pace. Her breathing sped up astronomically...and then a waterfall of tears fell down her face, escaping her system. 

 

Her body felt like she was made of lead, her heart burning with thousands of negative emotions swarming inside of her. Every inch of her was being torn apart. Little by little, piece by piece. They were being thrown down a ravine with burning hot flames. 

 

Her lungs were filled with sharp shards of ice, making her breathing staggered from pain. Unbearable pain. Whenever she took a breath, they would embed themselves into the flesh of her lungs. 

 

She tried to scream, yell, call for any sort of aid. Any sort of help.

 

...but nobody came. 

 

Nobody ever came.

 

Delorés sobbed as her soul, her very soul, slowly ripped itself apart. Agonizingly slow. A torturous pace, almost taunting her. The fifteen-year-old grabbed onto the bed sheets beneath her, a strangled cry escaping her mouth. 

 

Why did this happen to her? Why did nobody care?

 

“...nobody will ever care.”


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

It had been seven months since the marriage and, if such things were possible, the tense atmosphere had only risen.    
  
She was now expecting their first child and, while Omer avoided the issue with all costs, she found her unborn child comforting in a way. The thought of a small infant relying on her to care for it made Delorés, giddy in a twisted sense.    
  
In her mind, it seemed as though she wasn't alone anymore. Her small baby didn't judge her, yell at her, call her derogatory terms...    
  
... What a perfect companion.   
  
Omer would often frequent bars and whore houses, coming home drunker than a skunk. This would likely result In her being harassed and being made to do deplorable things.    
  
This was one such day. She faintly heard the door slam shut and looked at her pregnant stomach. "Just us again, Mon Ami." She gave the large surface an affectionate pat. "Let's cook supper,  yes?"   
  
The seventeen-year-old girl set the table and placed dinner right in the middle of the large rectangular surface. Delores also did the laundry, cleaned house...everything a good wife should do.    
  
Suddenly, the front door slammed open. It revealed a terribly drunk man, swaying side to side.    
  
"DELORÉS!" He stomped over to the pregnant woman, roughly jerking her shoulders. Purple fingerprints immediately began to mar her milky white skin.    
  
Delores forced herself to keep quiet, but emotions flooded her system like a waterfall.    
  
The man roughly pushed her down into the cold, stone floor. "YOU ARE A TERRIBLE WIFE! A TERRIBLE PERSON!"   
  
Each insult earned herself a rough punch to her face.    
  
"FREAK!"   
  
Black eye, swollen so much she couldn't see.    
  
"FREAK!"   
  
Bruised cheekbone.   
  
"FREAK!"   
  
Concussion; blood trickled down from her left temple.    
  
"FREAK!"   
  
Broken jaw, busted lip.   
  
"Unworthy!"   
  
His voice became weak, his attacks weaker.   
  
"Unworthy..."   
  
He drunkenly stood up and stepped on her dainty wrist, crushing it.    
  
"Unworth..."   
  
The sorry excuse for a man collapsed on the plush carpet in front of the sink.   
  
The girl struggled to get herself up. She limped to the bedroom, locking the door behind her.    
  
Her face was stone-like.   
  
She bared no emotions.   
  
They disappeared. Vanished. Melted away.    
  
Her pain was numbed. It overwhelmed Delorés so much it was as if it was never there.   
  
Omer was miraculously right:   
  
She  _ was _ a freak.   
  
She  _ was _ a terrible wife.   
  
She  _ was _ a terrible person.   
  
A twisted smile, one formed by someone who was surely disturbed, graced her face.   
  
Was this her purpose in life? To be treated like an object?    
  
It was a woman's role after all.


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

 

The dictionary definition of relief is rather complicated. The word translates to a feeling of reassurance and relaxation following release from anxiety or distress. Some people go to great lengths to make sure they receive some sort of said relief. Some people revert to alcohol and narcotics, while others take matters into their own hands. 

 

One such person was Delorés.

 

Ever since the birth of her two beautiful daughters, Anastasia and Drizella, the torment from Omer had only gotten worse. His drinking had become a constant staple to his persona. He grew more and more violent by the day.

 

So much pain had consumed her for too many years.

 

Pain.

 

_ Pain. _

 

Such a short, yet convoluted, word to explain. Yet, every living organism knows the exact definition of it. Although, most people do not realize the intensity the one-syllable word can give. 

 

She was one of the rare individuals that could.

 

The almost seventeen-year-old sitting on the sofa, folding washed clothes that came from an aged wicker basket. Besides the object, the blade of a butcher knife glittered in the dimly lit room. 

 

Her face was stone cold, not matching the complex thoughts soaring through her mind. She would be free soon. No more pain. No more humility. Relief.

 

_Relief_.

 

After all the clothes were folded and were set in neat piles, Delorés picked up the knife with a firm grip. 

 

She quietly walked up the staircase, avoiding any source of sound to come from the action. The brunette finally reached her destination, the bed that she was forced to share with her husband. There, snoring as loud as you could imagine. 

 

Delorés stood there, staring at the repulsive man that had made her life a living hell. Her grip of the knife tightened, so much that her knuckles were white as snow. Her breathing, though silent as the dead of night, came out in shaky gasps. Nerves were now a constant presence inside her body.

 

All the horrifying things Omer Flessis had done flooded her mind.  All the pain he caused. The humiliation. The stripping of the little dignity she had. 

 

Something inside her snapped. Finally, broke free from the abused soul. She pounced on Omer, slicing at any skin she could access. 

 

The husband woke up with a violent jolt, screaming like what some people might compare to a ferocious lion. His skin trembled with absolute outrage, his anger so strong it could wake the entire Earth.

 

“What the hell are you doing?!” He screamed, trying to fight off his deranged wife. 

 

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” 

 

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TELLING TO SHUT UP?!” 

 

She screamed an anguished scream. A scream created from years of abuse, years of excruciating pain, years of neglect. 

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it stop.

 

Make it st-

 

Omer grabbed an unlit lantern on the bedside table, bashing it against her skull. Delorés fell off the bed with an audible crack, her wrist snapping.

 

Everything was dark. Everything was quiet. Everything was silent... _ relief. _

 

_ Finally, relief.  _

 

...

There is a stone building sat on one of the many hills near Paris, France. It was unpleasant looking, not in the slightest. Even the mere look of it sent chills down a man’s spine. The building itself, the outside of it was grungy and mildew colonized on the chipped red bricks. 

 

Large stakes stood up and buried deep into the ground. Metal barbed wiring wrapped around them, signaling it was dangerous place to be. Moans and screams could be heard from the building. In front, there was a sign. A rickety sign that seemed to be falling apart. Rusted brown in almost all areas of it. If you come closer, the words were clear.

 

_ Paragon Heights Mental Institution. _


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

 

Cold...so cold. Her skin was ice, her emotions blank with overwhelming desires to relish in the feeling of relief. She didn’t dare open her eyes, not willing to look at the concrete surroundings of her cell. Her ground was solid wet earth, the original construction crew not caring enough to provide necessities.

 

Howls of pain and sorrow echoed the miserable building, rattling the windows. The atmosphere quivered from all the negativity Paragon Heights had to offer. Footsteps of people perfectly willing to help the poor mentally challenged individuals but gleefully chose not to.

 

These people were considered scum, the absolute filth of the darkened universe they were forced to thrive in. It was chaos, absolute chaos. But nobody cared.

 

Delorés knew that feeling perfectly well.

 

She willed herself to open her eyes, immediately regretting it. The eighteen-year-old gazed down at the chair she was tied to, urine-drenched bed sheets nearly glued to her skin. Her porcelain skin marred with greenish yellow bruises, making her appearance downtrodden.

 

No words could nullify the pain in her life. The disappointment that whatever almighty God planned out for her. She bet they were having a ball at making her life a living nightmare. 

  
Whoever it was, they were succeeding. On the highest regard. 


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

 

The front doors of Paragon Heights Mental Institution were large and intimidating, black as night. Cracks littered the two masses. Omer pushed the two doors with his hands, looking at the disgruntled nurse standing at the counter. 

 

The plump woman took a drag from her cigarette, lipstick staining the once white paper. “Can I help you?” Her voice was annoyed, clearly. 

 

“I’m here to retrieve my wife.” His voice called for no business. He wanted his wife, and he wanted her now. 

 

“What’s her name?” The nurse checked her large book of patients.

 

“Delorés Flessis.”

 

…

 

For the first time in two years, light shined inside the  _ bedroom _ of Delorés Flessis. The young woman was curled up in a corner, hugging herself in a fetal position. Her clothes were rags, looking more like prison was more than from somewhere intended to help the mentally ill.

 

The metal door opened with a creek, the faces of two revolting men waiting for her. One roughly grabbed her and pulled her to Omer, pushing Delorés into his arms. “You asked for the little freak, now you have her.”

 

Omer’s smirk reeked with terrible intentions. “I greatly thank you.” He roughly gripped her forearm and pulled her to the carriage. “Take us to the forest.” Delorés was shaking harder than any leaf there was Omer, disregarding the fact that he was starting to lay on her. He roughly bit her ear and Delorés wanted to sob. 

 

Once they reached the forest, Omer pulled her roughly out and she fell to the ground with a thud. He smirked. “You will be greatly punished, Sweet Delorés.”

 

The cab driver only heard a woman’s screams as he rode away back to the city.


	9. Chapter 10

NINE

Delorés woke up in a surprisingly pleasant mood. She was starting to wonder why until she saw her two precious girls curled up with her and Omer went. She smiled and kissed both of their heads with tenderness swarming her. 

 

She carefully untangled herself from the girls, smiling down at them. The young mother then pats her slightly bulging stomach, tucking Anastasia and Drizella into the bed. As the sun filtered through the window, she pulled the curtains closed so the toddlers could sleep a little longer. 

 

Delorés walked down to the kitchen to start cooking for her girls, thinking Omer was at work but was in a rude awakening when she saw an angry husband sitting at the kitchen table.    
  
“YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE! SUCH A TERRIBLE WIFE LEAVING ME WITHOUT BREAKFAST!” Omer stood up, the chair flying across the room. He got up and pushed her to the ground, making her fall down on her stomach. 

 

As he walked away, he pushed her down with his heavy foot, making her cry out in pain. The man slammed the front door, leaving Delorés in pain. The woman winced, pulling herself up from the ground. She heaved slightly, holding her stomach protectively. 

 

She silently prayed to whatever god willing to listen, to let her baby be okay. But, fate had a sick sense of humor, and blood streamed down her porcelain leg.

 

....

 

Marie-Claire Lebas was hanging clothes up to dry. It was an ironically sunny day, surprising for the autumn surroundings. Her linens fluttered in the air from the playful wind, covering the middle-aged woman’s view. 

 

When the wind seized to a stop, she saw something that awoke her never-ending curiosity: Delorés Flessis burying a box in the backyard, putting a flowering plant above it. Tears seemed to run down the young girl’s face as she did so.

 

Marie-Claire shook her head, that girl was always a strange one. 


	10. Chapter 10

TEN

 

Winter stormed France angrily, clusters of snow and ice swarming the air. The powdery substance was maintaining itself on the ground, starting the yearly routine of being a nuisance. 

 

Delorés slammed the door open, a basket of groceries in her arms. She closed the door behind her, making sure the blistering cold air stayed outside. Once she got undressed from her soaking wet winter wear, she heard a commotion coming from her bedroom. 

 

The young woman quickly grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, an ax they kept inside in fear of thievery, and walked upstairs slowly. The door was cracked open and what she saw enraged the young woman.

 

Omer was in bed with one of the promiscuous young ladies in all Mariselle. They seemed to be having....relations. 

 

Without any of them noticing, Delorés shut the door behind her. Screams and yells could be heard, the type of noises that would even make the toughest man’s blood curdle. The type that sent chills down everyone’s spine. 

 

It was chilling.

 

Horrifying. 

 

_ Well deserved. _

 

Ten minutes later, Delorés exited the room bathed in blood, a bloody ax in hand. Her chest heaved from adrenaline and exhaustion, her eyes wide with craze. Her skin shook and trembled, tears mixing in with the blood on her face. 

 

“Mama?” The small voice of Drizella called out. 

 

“Mama will be there in a minute, Mon Cher.” The distant voice of Delorés eerily responded back.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN 

 

_ Four Years Later _

_ Toulouse, France _

 

Fate has often been considered a tricky thing. While mostly true, I like to think of it having a twisted sense of humor. Because, in a way, we are all Fate’s personal playthings. One moment, you are being treated like the most terrible of people. The next, you are royalty, accompanied with glittering jewels and luxurious riches. 

 

While there wasn’t a throne or tiara that glittered from being so extravagant, Delorés had a small bakery. She had her six-year-old daughters. And, she had something that she had never had the pleasure of experiencing: freedom. Complete and utter freedom.

 

The 24-year-old heard a small bell ring as the door opened. She looked up, seeing a handsome man at the door. He was tall, about six foot tall. He had shoulder length blonde hair, majestically falling down in waves. He had sparkling ocean blue eyes, shining brightly on his peach toned skin. He had a slight stubble, outlining the laugh lines around his mouth. His suit was made out of the finest of the materials, telling you of his well-groomed nature. 

 

“I heard that this is the finest bakery in Toulouse.” His baritone voice was a velvety paradise, but Delorés still had negative opinions about men. 

 

“Well, I am glad that people think that sir.” Her smile was strained, wiping the flour off on her apron. “Are you ordering anything special today, Sir?”   
  
The man chuckled. “Yes, I would like to have a birthday cake for my daughter.” She looked up. “How old is she?” She asked as she got out her recipe for the special cake she did for birthdays. “She’s turning five.” 

 

Delorés hummed in acknowledgment as she started to get the ingredients out. “Lovely, I have two daughters about a year older than her.” The man obliged himself to sit down at a table for customers. “Well, maybe I can introduce my lovely Cinderella to your daughters? She has trouble making friends, you see.” 

 

Delorés nodded, not paying attention. She had no care for men. And, she would rather not go near anybody at the moment. Her life was too perfect to ruin at the moment. 

 

The man frowned, standing up. He leaned on the counter and just admired the beauty in front of him. “I daresay you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering, no?” Delorés mixed the batter with a wooden spoon. “Is that so?” 

 

She gasped in shock as the man grabbed her stray hand gently, placing a delicate kiss onto it. “My name is Maxmillien Tremaine, the surgeon of Toulouse.” Ah, so that explained his wealthy appearance, Delorés silently mused. 

 

The woman nodded curtly. “Delorés Bonnefoy.” She had changed her last name to her mother’s maiden name after she had moved to Toulouse. She and her girls both had no connection to the monster once wedded to her. 

  
“A beautiful name suited for a beautiful woman, no?” He smiled charmingly and let go of her hand. Little did either of them know, both of their lives were going to change negatively after this fateful moment. 

 

…

 

_ Six Months Later _

 

“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine. You may kiss the bride.” Max smiled charmingly and kissed her like she was the most delicate human on the Earth. Drizella and Anastasia watched them with a suspicious gaze, holding onto the other’s hand. 

 

On the left of both of them, a small girl holding a bouquet of violets stood. Her bright blue eyes shined brightly on her timorous face, blonde hair having daisies inside of it. She looked up at her father and smiled, holding his stray hand insecurely. The gaze of her now stepmother setting her in a state of unease. 

 

If she makes her Daddy happy, how bad can she be?


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE

 

Maximilien coughed harshly, resting his sickly head down onto the pillows. Ever since the marriage of him and Delorés, his health had been declining more and more. He didn’t know why or what sickness he was hit with, but he felt like the world’s largest landfill. 

 

Delorés came in, smiling charmingly as she sauntered in, a bowl of soup and some fresh bread out of the oven. She carried the meal on a metal platter. “Max? I have lunch for you.”

 

A rough cough came from his mouth. “Merci Delorés, Merci.” His wife kissed his forehead and sighed in a concerned manner. “You’re still warm…” Max chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Oh, I’ll be fine, Mon Cherie. Do not worry.” He looked down at the soup and smiled brightly. “Oh, this looks fantastic!” Leave it to Max to take a horrible situation with an optimistic outlook. 

 

She smiled lovingly at him, sitting next to her husband. Now, you might be thinking something along the lines of “This isn’t Delorés, the lady we had become to know.”

 

To clear your confusion fogged minds, My Dear Readers is something residing in the pocket of Delorés’s apron. A small, brown glass vial sat. A label read one terrifying substance:  _ Cyanide. _

 

…

 

It was a warm summer day. Drizella and Anastasia were merrily playing outside. Whilst her stepsisters were not having a care for the world, she was inside keeping her Daddy company.

 

“Daddy...are you going to get better?” The blonde haired beauty asked. “I don’t like you being sick.” The father chuckled then coughed due to it. “I don’t like it, Mon Amor. And... I don’t have an answer.” He lifted her chin with a single finger. “You just have to be strong for Daddy, okay?”

 

The small girl nodded. “Now what have I always told you?” She smiled and looked at the same blue eyes that her father had given her. “That I have to be comfortable with myself before I’m comfortable with other people?”

 

He shook his head. “True but not what I’m looking for.” Cinderella thought hard. “To... To be never afraid to be not normal?” He nodded and smiled brightly. “That’s right, do you remember why?” Again, she thought with an intensity a fully grown adult would carry. “Because... Because being not normal makes me unique?”

 

He smiled and kissed her soft forehead with his chapped lips, holding her close. “Exactly. And never follow a dream another person makes out for you, understand?” She nodded and snuggled into the warmth her father gave her. “Good...want to nap with me?” 

 

Poor Cinderella was already asleep; drowsy from the comforting presence the father gave her. 

 

_ Two Hours Later _

 

Cinderella woke up to her father being as cold as ice, motionless on the comfortable bed. She frowned and grabbed her favorite blanket, draping it over him. She noticed he wasn’t breathing and she frowned, shaking him. “Daddy?” No answer.

 

She started to panic and shook him harder. “Daddy please wake up. Don’t play games with me now, please wake up.” She started to cry and rested her head on his chest. Strangled sobs came out of her chest. “Please wake up.”

 

Delorés watched in the background, unnoticed from her stepdaughter. A crazed look developed in her eyes were well covered. The torment of her past created this monster, this woman that now had malicious views of the world. 

 

Now I have a question, Dear Readers, that we can ask ourselves:   
  
_ Did we ever expect any other outcome to this story? _

  
  
  
  
  


** Fin **


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